House of Glass
by ScreamBrianna
Summary: When Spencer finds he has a sister who needs his help, he offers to take care of her by becoming her legal guardian. He is a logical man, and when it comes to raising a teenager by yourself, sometimes logic just doesn't cut it. Let the brutal games begin.
1. Distractions

Preface

I'd like to preface this with a quick note. I'm going to try my hardest to keep the people in character. There will be no slash, no smut, nothing too crazy. Okay, maybe a little bit of crazy. I have tweaked some facts for the sake of the story. Call it poetic license. I'm going to do the best I absolutely can. I'll try to make sure all my facts are straight. I have been playing with this storyline for a while and I'm pretty excited for this one. I haven't really written for a while, so forgive me if I'm a bit rusty. My laptop's down, so I'm using my mother's, which does not have Word, so I'm on Wordpad and I've no annoying squiggly red lines under misspelled words, so forgive any typos. I'm trying to keep this at a good pace, but let me know if I need to slow down or speed it up. _Constructive_ critisism is a godsend, so please don't hold back. AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, please, _pleasepleaseplease_, warn me if you think Lia is a potential or in danger of being a MarySue. I hate them, and I want to make sure you guys see a full and well-rounded character.

That said, Thank you _so_ much for reading and I thouroughly hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>Chapter One<p>

Stepping off the plane, a fresh wave of nausea sweeps over me. This can't be real. The attendent ushers me into the terminal, where my brother will be waiting for his orphaned sister. I'm fourteen. Fifteen in two weeks, and I have no mother. I am a burden to my father, who washed his hands of me and held me out between his thumb and forefinger, arms length away, because I am nothing but a stray cat with a mean streak. I need to be put down.

As I walk into the airport, I see hundreds of people. It's a few days before the fourth of July. Travelers are moo-ing into their phones about their delayed flights and misplaced tickets. They all have places to go, people to hold them when they cry. I am not one of them. I've been shipped to a long-lost brother, who had no clue of my existence.

My mother just might have had the right idea.

Even as I think this, I can practically see her, sitting on my bed. She is in a white kimono with her long blonde hair pushed over her shoulder, just brushing her lap, wavy and free. She is staring at me with those crystal blue eyes, staring straight into me with a tolerant and patient smile, her head tilted to the side. _Silly girl, _she would say,_ You're not alone. I'm right here, aren't I?_

But she's not.

A man in a sweater and blazer walks up to me, his eyes studying my face.

"Are you Amelia?" He asks, looking at the bag I'm carrying. I stare at him for a moment. Is this him? Is this the good-deed-doing guy who said he'd take pity on a girl he doesn't even know? He has kind eyes, but I learned not to trust any eyes a long time ago.

"Lia." I say, but it is not my voice. It is a mouse's.

He smiles, a little carefully, and extends his hand. "I'm Spencer."

"Nice to meet you." I say, a little stronger now, it fools him, or he pretends it does.

"Are you hungry? We could get something to eat, maybe?" He sounds nervous.

"Yeah, that sounds good." We leave the airport, him carrying one of my suitcases and I hold onto my messenger bag for dear life. He has one very similar to mine, except lighter. I wonder what he keeps in his. Does he have a pack of cards? A laptop? Does he carry a journal with him wherever he goes? I wonder if I have anything in common with this stranger who go slapped with the label 'Brother' as unexpectedly as I got slapped with 'Sister'.

I used to want siblings, I wanted a big brother to protect me and a big sister to tell me all the things I was too afraid or embarassed to ask our parents. Or maybe a little brother to torment me and listen into my phone conversations secretly. A little sister to tell her all things she was too scared to ask Mom and Dad. Now, I'm not sure at all what I want. Do I wish I was back with my father? The man who only ever loved my mother, and only loved me as an afterthought. The man who worked too much and never tucked me in. He never read me bedtime stories, never asked how my day was.

Do I want to be here, with someone I only share DNA with, and possibly nothing else? The caseworker didn't tell me much. She was a tired black woman who had seen too much and it showed. She explained to me in a lolling drawl that I was no longer wanted by my father, and that I had a brother named Spencer, who worked in Quantico, Virginia. I was handed a plane ticket and told to pack everything I wanted. My furniture would be delivered to his apartment. Then she closed my file and told me I was free to go, and that she was aching for some coffee.

Do I want my mother? More than anything. She didn't want me, though. She wanted to be free of all responsibilty. Free of a man who loved her more than she could handle; free of a daughter who was obscenely average. Maybe a little smart, but nothing she was interested in. Free of expectations and tolerant and patient smiles. Free of the tears I only heard her cry twice.

"_Lia_." I turn my head to the sound, and Spencer is standing maybe ten feet behind me, leaning on a Jetta and looking curiously at me. I hadn't realized he stopped. I turn back around, cheeks burning. "Sorry," I whispersay, he nods his head with a kind smirk and I put my suitcase in the trunk while he loads the other one into the backseat. I get into the car and it smells like new car. It has a Satelite Radio and electric everything. He looks and smiles at me, looking sort of wistful.

"My friend Derek convinced me that I needed a new car. I didn't believe him, but I guess this one's kinda growing on me." He laughs and I smile, because I think that's what he expects. Starting the car, we both put on our seatbelts and I tighten my grip on the brown leather bag in my lap. He glances at my white knuckles and his eyebrows draw together, troubled.

"I know this is not ideal," he begins, eyes locked on the road. I'm not sure if he's avoiding eye contact or being a safe driver. Either way, I'm okay with this. "I'm going to do the best I can, I can't promise that I'll be the perfect guardian, but I promise you I'll try."

He turns his head and our eyes lock and he looks like if there were any promise he had to keep in the world, it was this one. I nod, and look out at the road. "Thank you."

We pull into a small, dusty diner and I get out, deathgrip on my bag tight as ever. I don't know what I'm doing here. Two weeks ago, I had a mother who would paint me in the garden, reading a book. I didn't have any friends, but I had her. I had a father, who may have not loved me so much, but I know he tried, sometimes. In small gifts he would leave on my bed, a bottle of perfume, a new book by an author I didn't like, but he couldn't have known that. I had the bookstore owner, Marvin, who had a twinkle in his eye and wire-y gray hair. I had a room with a full glass wall, overlooking the garden and some of the town. I had a wall of books and a large wooden desk where I had all my journals and sketchbooks. I had a cat, Berlioz, who loved to curl up next to me while we watched rare thunderstorms together.

I have nothing here, but a brother who I don't know and a bag or two of clothes and books. Favorites only.

We are seated in a booth and I sit, telling the waitress I want coffee, because then I'll appear a bit more mature than my age dictates. Spencer orders the same and we are stuck in an awkward silence.

I take a breath, and try to embrace some of my mother's boldness. "So, do you like to read?"

Spencer grins so hard the window next to us shakes. "It's my favorite passtime."

"Mine too." I smile a little, and I notice we have the same nose. We are both tall, though we have different bone structures. I have been told one billion and two times I could be my mother's twin, but I have my father's eyes and his nose. Spencer and I share that. We have similar brown-hazel eyes. These little things comfort me in some way.

"Who's your favorite author?"

I don't hesitate, because this is familiar territory. Books are my safety subject. "Laurie Halse Andersen, or maybe Amy Reed. But my favorite book is The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran."

"I've never read any Andersen or Reed, but that was Gibran's masterpiece."

"What's your favorite genre?"

"Sciences and Criminology."

"Criminology?" I ask, sort of thrown off.

"Yeah, it's the study of criminal behavior. I'm a Behavioral Analasyst for the FBI."

"FBI? As in Federal Beaurau of Investigation?" I am utterly gobsmacked. Suddenly, I feel like I don't know him at all.

"Yeah, I profile serial killers to help find them. My job involves a lot of travel. Hotch, my boss, got me some time off and then I'll be doing deskwork for a while so I can stay in the area. I figured that'd give us some time to get to know each other." The waitress comes back with our coffee, and I pour in some sugar and creamer, hoping I can man up for the taste. I only drink coffee when I'm in the presence of adults, it helps them to not underestimate me. I hate when they do that. We order the same thing, funny enough, both getting cheeseburgers and french fries. It's a common favorite, but it still gives me a little sense of joy, knowing we have something in common

We stir our coffee and I take a sip, and it's not so bad. I think I might start drinking it more regularly. My mother didn't like it; said that it wasn't good for my natural flow of energy.

"That's sounds really intersting. It must suck, though." He looks up, a questioning smile on his face. I am getting too comfortable. I'm a guest in this situation. I don't get to make voiced observations.

"Howso?" I shrug and he urges me on, "No, it's okay, what do you mean?"

"I mean, to profile a serial killer, you have to think like him, and see what he does. I've always had a morbid sense of respect for police officers. They see a lot of terrible things. I think it takes a lot out of a person to always have to see the worst of humanity. My mom always tried to shield me from my, um, our dad's work, because he was defending these murderers and sometimes he brought it home with him and I would peek at the pictures and notes. They were pretty gruesome. I don't know how I'd stomach that on a daily basis, but I have a lot of respect for anyone who can. I mean, so long as they aren't the sole _cause_ of it."

He nods his head, "You're right. Sometimes it does suck, but you don't just see the bad in people. I've met some amazing, _good_ people in my job. The community standing up to protect eachother, their outcry against all the bad and the support from everyone is sometimes overwhelming, but it can be comforting, knowing people would protect a perfect stranger. In a morbid way, it sort of renews my faith in humanity sometimes."

We sit in silence as I process that. He has a point, it probably does. I still can't imagine having to look at dead bodies all the time, but if that's what he chose to do, then I guess I support him. After a while, we recieve our food and eat. I pick at my fries as Spencer devours the burger in his hands.

"I've enrolled you at the Van Der Buxonne High School. I've done some research and it seems like a really nice school. There's five hundred kids in your junior class, but the teacher ratio is one to ten. seventy three percent of their students who graduate from Buxonne have at least one degree by the time they're twenty five. It seems like a really promising school. It was founded in eighteen ninety-two by a philanthropist named Edward Thomas Van Der Buxonne. He died at the age of thirty four of tuberculosis, just three months after opening the school. The motto of the school is 'Vox Populi', which roughly translates to 'Voice of the People'. I think that's definitely a promising sign. You'll be able to choose which courses you want to go into. They have a huge selection ranging from very basic pre-law and pre-med to advanced journalism and art classes. I had your transcripts sent to them, it is a tough school to get into, but your grades were pretty great. They said they'd love to have you in fall. I looked into a bunch of schools, there's a lot of high schools, for all different kinds of interests: drama, activists, pre-law, pre-med, sciences, just about anything! I didn't really know what your interests were, though, so I figured I'd set you up with a school with a broad spectrum, and hope for the best." He seems really excited, sharing this knowledge with me and I smile at him, because his enthusiasm is sweet.

He looks at me for a second, smiling curiously, "What are you interested in?"

I think for a moment. "Journalism, I think. I like writing. My mom always says-" I stop short, catching myself. She doesn't say anything anymore. "-said, I had a well-developed sense of right and wrong. I like telling the whole story, too. Not just the parts I like."

"Maybe I could see if they have any open spots on their newspaper. That'd be a great extracurricular." He grins, and I see him practically staring into the possibilities.

I crack a smile, a real one, because maybe this could be a good thing, being here with this guy, _my brother_, who I barely know. Maybe this could be great.

"Can I just focus on making friends first?"


	2. Adapting

Author's Note.

How's it going? That a yes, no, feck off? I can dig it. Reviews help the creative process, you know. Writing should be a sport, because Lord knows we need some cheerleaders. So let me know what you think. I have a full plot for this story, so don't expect it to be all 'Aww, sister meets brother, they fight, they make up, happily ever after. I plan on doing a lot of maturing on Lia's part and maybe a little on Reid's as well. This is a story about growing up and facing reality. It's not a fluff-fic or anything cutesy. Maybe a fuzzy moment here or there, but I'm not going to have them snuggling up to eachother by tomorrow night. I'd imagine a situation like this would involve a lot of walking on eggshells and delicacy. I'm not doing this 'cuz i thiink itz cute dat theii luv ecahother'. It's a real novel. There will be twists and pain and highschool as well as serious drama. I like playing with my characters; blurring the lines of right and wrong. Don't be so quick to judge the characters in my stories as good or bad. Most of the time, I play with roles and their dynamics. I try not to leave a single stone unturned.

Once again, thank you so much for sticking around and reading this, please relax, sit back and enjoy!

* * *

><p>It's been a three days since that day in the diner. We drove for another thirty minutes afterwards, talking about books and school. When he asked about my friends, I drew back, as if he'd slapped me. He looked over at me and I saw something akin to regret in his doe eyes.<p>

"My mom was my best friend." It's the most truthful thing I think I've ever said in my life. I sealed up, trying to stop the torrential pain that accompanies thinking about her. Her laugh, how she'd play the ukelele in the middle of her all white king size bed, looking like some Greek goddess in her cotton dresses and tan, clear skin. Maybe all girls think their mother's are the most beautiful women in the world, but I _know_ she was. She had such an exhuberent essence to her. She could see someone that she hadn't spoken to in years, yet she'd make them feel like they were the only person in the world. I hate when people say I'm just like her. I'm _nothing _like her. She was the epitome of perfection. I am just a painful, blurry reminder of that.

He was quiet after that. It wasn't an awkward silence, more like he was pondering something. "Would you be willing to go into counseling? I think it could help you a lot. I understand that what happened was very painful. I can't imagine what you're going through. Truthfully, I was so worried about you when it happened that your caseworker, Darla, had to convince me not to fly up as soon as I found out about everything. I'm really sorry."

"Wasn't that the same conversation that you found out about my existence?"

He looked over at me, a kind and wise smile on his face. "It doesn't matter how long I'd known about you*, Lia, you're my little sister. I was shocked, to put it lightly, but I knew as soon as I'd found out about you that the only thing that mattered was your health and safety. Mental and otherwise. I learned a long time ago that family trumps just about anything, including time lost."

"Otherwise?"

"There were some accusations against William Reid, they were discredited, of course, but I guess I feel a sort of instinctual worry for you, regardless. My worry was unfounded, I jumped the gun on that one, I think it'll always be in the back of my head, though." He glanced at me, then cursed softly under his breath. "I shouldn't have even brought it up, really. I'm sorry. It's not important."

"What accusations?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Nothing you need to worry about right now. Let's focus on getting you home and settled. You're stuff arrived yesterday. My team helped arrange your room, I hope you like it. If you don't, we can change it around, no problem. We left your boxes unpacked, I figured you would know where you wanted everything put. I can help you out, if you want."

Later we arrived at his apartment. A tidy and, although a little small, very nice place. He had apparantly cleaned out his office so I could have my own bedroom. They had painted it an off white and it is not a glass wall and wall of books, it is special to me because I know Spencer had to sacrifice his space for me. I appreciate it with so much fervor that I felt misty eyed. Neither my father or mother had given up much in having me. My mother wanted someone to have around while my father was at work. My father worked obscene hours. They hired a nanny to keep me out of their hair until I was old enough to realize I was born to be a fixture, not a child. I was an adult before I was out of diapers, at least that's what Madgalena, my nanny, had said everytime my childhood was brought up in conversation. After I stopped crying whenever I wanted something, my mother finally took to me like a bee to a flower. I was attached to her hip for as long as I can remember.

Spencer and I ate chinese for dinner and I stayed in my room, unpacking everything I brought with me. I had one bookcase, which, by my count, held about one hundred and forty five books. Good enough for me. It would hold all my favorites and about thirty extra. I'd have to cut back on my book-buying. Maybe I'd get a library card.

At around nine thirty that night, I went to bed with a partially unpacked room and a knot in my gut, because this is not my bed. Not yet.

* * *

><p>Three days later, we are sitting on opposite ends of the tan couch watching a BBC documentary on Medieval Serial Killers. Every couple minutes Spencer would spout off some random fact and I would be a little bit more impressed. Finally, I thought of one.<p>

"Elizabeth Bathory has been claimed to be the bloodiest serial killer in history. She single-handedly killed almost five hundred young virgins either by torture, for her own amusement, or by slitting their throats and hanging them upsidedown to drain them into a bathtub. She bathed in their blood, claiming it kept her young. She was actually a cousin of Vladimir the Impaler, and one of the first in line for the throne. Like Vladimir, she was also used as inspiration in Dracula by Bram Stoker. He based the three vampire women in the book off of her."

As I finish my rant, he looks over at me and smiles. "I didn't know that."

I look at him, smirking. "Liar."

"Is that possible? Or probable?" I ask him a few quiet minutes later.

"What?" He glances over to me, his head resting on hand that is propped up on the arm of the couch.

"That there could be two sociopaths so closely knit in one famiy? I mean, that'd have to be one hell of a gene pool."

"Science shows that mental illnesses can be genetic, I'm not positive how probable sociopathism is, given it's a bit more rare than something like depression or bipolar disorder, but based on my own knowledge of the subject, which is pretty big, I'd say it's not a very high percent."

I think about this for a moment, and we sit in silence, watching about Elizabeth Bathory and Vladimir the Impaler. It turns out I was wrong about how many people she killed. Instead of correcting me, or laughing, he continued to watch as if he didn't notice. Though given his attentiveness to detail, I know he did. I silently thank him, because he didn't throw it in my face like others might have done.

* * *

><p>Later that night, I can't sleep and I walk into the kitchen for a glass of water. I see Spencer on the couch, quickly flipping through a book. Though he's explained to me three times, I still can't comprehend how fast he reads. I can't imagine it.<p>

Upon a quick peek at what he's reading, I can just make out the author's name, written clearly on the front. _Laurie Halse Andersen_.

I feel my eyes sting because he is trying. He is trying to get to know me, and that is more than I could have ever asked for.

I go to sleep reading articles online about Dr. Spencer Reid & Co., Serial Killer Extraordinare's.

* * *

><p>*Here's where I said I'd be twisting some facts. For the sake of the story we are going to say Garcia never dug that deep in "Memoriam", though we all know she could have found that faster than I could have typed this sentence.. We're going to say that she looked for kiddie porn and icky stuff and found nothing questionable but a Celine Dion ticket bought six months prior. Holla.<p> 


	3. Aging

Chapter Three

The next morning I wake up to unmistakeable smell of pancakes and wholesomeness. I dress quickly, and while I'm putting on my shoes Spencer knocks on my door.

"Come in." He opens the door and smiles brightly at me. Sometimes, when he smiles like that, it's like he's really a five year old. It's such an innnocent look, and then I remember that he sees death on a near daily basis, and I know that sometimes, even though he smiles like a five year old, he must feel a hundred. Seeing death ages you much quicker than years ever could.

"I'm making pancakes! Well, I'm attempting to. I've gotten the recipe down pat, but something's just missing in them. I measured everything perfectly, though, and followed the directions exactly. They're good, just not great." He looks slightly bothered by this, still innocent.

I smile, a secret smile, because Magdalena always knew what was wrong with my cooking. She said it was missing the most important ingredient and I would look at her quizzically. "Love, Florecita, it's missing _love._"

"Maybe it's missing a little love." Spencer laughs, looking at me strangely. "That's not in the recipe."

I look up at him, remembering myself. "Sorry, it's what my nanny would say when I didn't like how my cooking would turn out."

He looks a bit more somber now, and suddenly he's twenty-eight again. Not five. "You had a nanny?"

"Just until I was a bit over four." He nods, looking a little irritated. Have I said something wrong? I go over our conversation, and I don't see how having a nanny is such a terrible thing.

He looks at me and immediately his features soften. "Oh, no, Lia. I'm not mad at you. I guess I always get a little aggitated when parents hire nanny's. I know, uh, Dad, worked a lot, but didn't your mom stay at home?"

I look at him a little funny. He's never directly addressed William Reid as 'Dad', it sounds awkward and maybe a little bitter. And this is the first time he's brought my mom up. I dodge the pain that accompanies mentioning her and answer, trying to keep the robotic tone out of my voice. "She did. She was an artist, though, so a lot of times she would stay in the studio all day and demand that no one bother her. After I got a little older, though, we became very close. I wasn't a very noisy kid, so she let me sit in her studio and read while she worked."

"Huh." He replies, tongue in cheek. "Anyway, breakfast is served and then we have a few things to talk about."

We sit at the table and I eat the pancakes, and mention that they are great. So great, in fact, that I have seconds, but maybe I'm just avoiding having a real talk with him. As I finish up the last on my plate, I feel like I might throw up. From pancake overload or being nerve-wracked (because I've found that direct, pre-determined conversations never seem to be about good thing), I can't tell.

"Alright, so I just wanted to talk to you about meeting my team. I've held them off this long, but their chomping at the bit to get to see you." I stare at him. This is it?

"S-sure. I mean, that's fine." I say, biting my tongue.

He studies me for a moment. "What is it?"

"What is what?" I say, wide-eyed.

"You're holding back."

"I'm not."

"You're talking to a professional profiler."

"...Are they nice?" I ask finally, staring at a spot on the wooden floor.

"Of course they're nice." He lets out a laugh. "They're the best people I know."

"Okay." I say, take a deep breath. "Okay. When do we meet them?"

He grins; a beaming five year old boy, "We're going out to dinner with them tonight."

* * *

><p>I make my bed and get a shower. Staring into the foggy mirror, it looks like my mom is staring back at me. Her features are blurred and her hair is a little shorter, but she's there. I reach out to touch her, and the steam on the mirror smudges. I see me. No trace of my mother left.<p>

It takes all my strength not to punch the deceitful mirror where my mother's figure just was. I grit my teeth and go back to my bedroom, where rain falls down my face for maybe an hour.

* * *

><p>There is a knock on my door. I am in a pair of dark jeans and black casmere sweater that was my mother's for gallery presentations.<p>

Spencer walks in once I say I'm dressed and he smiles softly at me. He sits down on my bed and pats the spot next to him. I feel betrayed for a minute, because this is not what I had planned. He is breaking the carefully placed rules. I don't invade his space and he doesn't invade mine. When I came here, I figured at best we'd eat together. I would stay out of his way and he would let me be. Now, here he is, playing the concerned parent and I am the angst-ridden child.

I ignore the anger and sit where he patted, maybe a few inches from that spot, because too close is too personal. We are not personal.

Spencer looks at me and then looks down. "I heard you crying earlier.-"

I cut him off, dreadfully aware of my almost assuredly red nose and puffy eyes. "I'm fine."

"I doubt that, very much. No one in your position would be fine, Amelia." He looks me in the eye, earnestness shining, "Absolutely no one."

"Well I will be fine." He is still looking me in the eye and when I can't take it anymore, I turn away. I can feel him still looking at me.

"Would you be willing to go into counseling?" I am shaking my head before the sentence is even out.

"No. I don't need to talk to some stranger about how I'm a poor little girl who's parents didn't want her. I don't want to talk to a stranger in general." I snap, looking pointedly at him and he is hurt. Immediately, I feel guilty. "I'm so sorry, I just, I don't really want to go into counseling. Maybe in a couple months. But, it's just,"

I take a breath and he is urging me on with his eyes. "I can't really grasp what happened. I hardly remember finding her. It's like when I try to think about it, my brain is wrapped in a fog. I can't even remember exactly what the caseworker said when she told me how my own father didn't want me anymore. When I talk about this stuff, I'm supposed to feel sad, right? I feel like an absolute freak. Or maybe I'm a sociopath, because I don't feel anything. Thinking about it is different, but talking about it is like going through the motions."

"You don't need to be sorry. You're right. We are still pretty much strangers." He looks me in the eye, maybe so I'll understand how honest he is when he says his next sentence. "I hope that can change. I told you, I can't promise I'll be the perfect guardian, the perfect _brother, _but I did promise you I will try."

I nod and he pats my knee, standing up and just before he walks out of the room, he turns around. "You are a lot of things, Lia, but I can _guarentee_ you are not a sociopath. You're mind is shutting down, in a sense, so it can preserve itself. That fact alone means you are so affected by this emotionally, that your mind is trying to sheild you from it, which consequentlly means you are a normal person. And you are doing what you need to do to get by. You're right, even though you're not fine now, you _will _be. I just want you to get some help so we can ensure that the healing process goes as smoothly as something like this can go. So when you are ready, let me know, I already have a counselor lined up for you."

He is out the door before I can respond and I take a deep breath, regroup and change out of my mother's sweater, into a white shirt and a cotton navy cardigan. It smells like me, not her.

* * *

><p>Okay. I think maybe I'm pushing their relationship too fast, so I'm gonna slow things down a bit. Please give me some feedback. I love you're reviews, but I want to know what you like <em>and <em>what you don't.

Love you guys!

**Florecita is "Little Flower" in spanish.


	4. French Connections

Chapter Four

I sit for a while, contemplating things. It seems, in moments like these, that nothing will ever change. I will go on living a half-life because my mother was my _entire_ life. The therapist that came in after her funeral said I had an 'unhealthily dependent' relationship with her. That's all nice and medical-sounding, but they don't understand. Who else did I have? Magdelena was gone by the time I was seven. She was old and tired. My mother taught me how to paint, play guitar, be graceful. She taught me ballet and to love knowledge in any form it can come in. She held me when I cried. She was my best friend, my _only_ friend, really.

Sometimes, I think she meant it to be that way. She wanted me to herself, and no one else could have me. She frowned at me when I would come home from school saying that I met someone nice. The next day I would ignore them and when I'd tell her, she would smile serenely and pat my cheek, as if to tell me that she was so happy I was completely alone in school. The therapist, Dr. Entirely Unremarkable, said that I had developed as well as I could, in the social and mental aspect, at least.

I stared at him for the fifty-two minutes he was there talking to me without saying a word.

He finally grew too uncomfortable to speak any longer and shuffled his paperwork a few minutes, then left without saying goodbye.

It's in times like these, I think he may have been right. Who would sit in a small apartment for four days straight, with no human contact other than a guy who is practically a stranger? I stand up, willing myself to get out of this place. Just walk around the city. I sit back down. I have no desire to go anywhere.

_Isolating and poor living patterns can be a symptom of depression._

I take a deep breath and stand up, grabbing my purse and going out to the living room. I'm not depressed. A little sad, maybe, but I won't lie in bed all day eating junk and crying into a greasy pillow. Spencer is sitting on the couch, a few files spread out in front of him. He closes one and it says 'Federal Beaurau of Investigation'. It still freaks me out, him being an 'Agent'. It seems like such a creepy job.

"Spencer, I was wondering, uh, is there any bookstores around here?" He smiles brightly, nodding.

"There's one right around the corner. I'll go grab my bag. Just give me five minutes to put this stuff away." I stick my hands out to tell him to stop.

"Just let me know where it is. I'll find it, no worries." I smile, hopefully convincingly.

"I have to get a few books that I ordered anyway." I sigh, giving up.

"Alright. Whenever you're ready." He starts closing the files, I go to help him and as he picks one up a picture falls down, face up. Looking up at me is an obviously dead girl with a pentagram carved into her chest. I gasp and look away, picking it up as if it were Satan himself. I hand it to Spencer and he is studying my face.

"You weren't supposed to see that." He says, a little dumbly.

"I gathered that much."

"Are you alright?"

"The nausea will pass." Maybe in a thousand years, but it'll pass.

"It's a pretty heinous sight to see, I know."

"It's not the sight, really. It's the principle."

He stands up straight now, looking at me curiously. I feel like I might throw up on him. "I mean, how would anyone feel if some teenager two million miles away was looking at a picture of their sister's, child's, best friend's mutilated body? Seeing something like that feels like the ultimate invasion of their privacy. It's pretty gross, too."

"You're mom was right." I'm staring at him, completely baffled. He smiles, albeit a little sadly, "You do have a strong sense of right and wrong."

We are walking in the warm summer breeze and things don't seem nearly as awkward between Spencer and I. He keeps glancing over at me, but I think he's just checking to make sure I'm not freaking out too hard over the dead girl thing. He jogs in front of me and holds the door open to a dusty little shop with a million books. An old man with his white hair in a pony-tail is grinning at us as we walk in.

"Spencer! How are you? I haven't seen you in years!" I look at him and then to my brother, who says, ever so quietly, "Dementia."

I nod and start walking to the aisles of books. Looking over to Spencer, I see he is chatting with a small smile on his face to the old man. I slip into the section labeled 'True Crime' and start looking for general books on criminal psychology. I pick up one labeled Frenzy. I only catch the name, the words 'serial killer, psychology, and FBI profiler's accounts' and the author, David Rossi. It isn't my normal routine of scouring the book inside and out before buying it, but I don't have the time or patience. I slither up to the cash register, and Spencer is still talking animatedly with Mr. Demetia. A girl in all black, apathetically chewing her bubble gum raises her eyebrow when she sees the book, but rings it up without a word. For some odd reason, I feel entirely embarassed buying this book. Especially in front of Spencer. I swipe the credit card my dad gave me (no goodbye, or hug, just a credit card with a five-thousand limit). She bags it up and I slip it in my brown bag, unnoticed by Spencer or the crazy old guy.

I return to the books, finding a few that peak my interest. I look up and jump when I see Spencer right behind me. I turn and give him a sharp look. "You scared the crap out of me."

"So what are you hiding?" I gape at him.

"What do you mean?"

"You kept your eyes averted except when you were checking to see if I was looking. You also had your shoulders hunched foreward, which isn't your normal posture _Almost_," He pauses, giving me an imploring look, "as if you were hiding something."

"Are you going to do this everytime I try to hide something?"

"Hopefully you'll learn that it's almost always going to be a futile attempt, at best." He smiles, having the audacity of looking a little sheepish.

I roll my eyes and reach into my bag, handing him the plastic bag with the book in it. He opens it, and laughs loudly. I am blushing furiously and I want to hit him. "Have you read it?"

"My partner in the BAU _wrote _it." For no reason seen to me, I am entirely humiliated and I grab the book, stalking away from him. "It's totally normal for you to want to know what I do for a living, you know. It's nothing to be embarassed about." I pick up a book, staring at it but not comprehending. "It's fine, Lia."

"It's _not_ fine, Spencer. It's _not._ Don't tell me it's fine when it's so _fucking_ obviously _not._ I'm not fine." I whisper the last part. When I look down, I see the book is clearly labeled with one word.

_Suicide._

I drop it, and rub my face with both hands. For the first time, Spencer puts his arm around my shoulder. "It will be, Amelia. I'll make sure of it." I nod, but don't agree. I can't vocally agree to something I don't believe.

* * *

><p>It is five o'clock. Time to go meet 'The Team'. I meet Spencer in the kitchen. He is grinning madly, though I can tell by the way his eyes are dancing nervously he's not entirely sure of this. We get in the car and begin pull into an italian restaurant and go inside. The waitress is giving him the hardcore flirty eyes, but he is, or <em>seems<em> to be, completely oblivious. "Reservations for Reid? Party of nine."

"Ah, yes, you're party has already arrived. Follow me." She is swaying her hips and he glances down for a second, then looks over to me and clears his throat awkwardly when I raise my eyebrow.

Everyone stands when they see Spencer coming. They all grin and reach to shake my hand as they are introduced.

"Guys, this is Lia. Lia, this is Hotch, Rossi, Derek, JJ, Emily, and last but most definitely not least, Penelope Garcia."

"Pleasure to meet you, kitten. I'm sure we'll be great friends." The blonde with the cat-eye glasses, Penelope, winks at me as we sit.

"How are you all settling in?" Hotch is asking, mostly to Spencer. He is studying the younger man with intense eyes. I look back and forth between the two, a little confused.

Rossi laughs and I realize he is the one who wrote the book I bought today. The thought makes my ears burn with chagrin, but I stare down at the menu in front of me. "I thought it's a rule not to profile the profiler?"

"It's just a question," But Hotch is smirking slightly. "Well?"

Spencer begins to answer but another voice blocks him out of my hearing.

"Do you dye your hair? That is one of the most natural looking blonde tones I've ever seen. The highlights and lowlights are just fabulous!"

I look up at the comment, and find the brunette woman, Emily, I think, is talking. Penelope is shaking her head. "No way. I know my hair dyes, and that is one hundred percent au naturale. Trust me."

Emily raises her eyebrow, "You sure?"

I smile a little. "Penelope's right, I'm afraid. I wasn't even allowed in the hair-dye section at the drug store. My mom was a hardcore anti-anything not completely natural."

JJ smiles. "I wish I would have been raised like that. I dyed my hair blonde when I was sixteen and I could never stand the roots long enough to let it grow out. It's been a pain in my but ever since."

Emily is nodding her head. "I went red in college for a while. I had the hardest time trying to get it out. Getting rid of red tones in hair is like pulling molars."

Spencer is staring a JJ curiously, his hushed conversation with Hotch apparently over. "I didn't know you weren't a natural blonde."

"There are some things not even a profiler figure out."

The darker man, Derek is laughing now. "Doubtful. I knew you were a bottle blonde the first day I met you."

Penelope raises her eyebrow. "How can you tell, Hot Stuff?"

"She was too smart to be a blonde." He looks around, everyone's faces are doubtful. "What? There are statistics that prove that hair color and IQ can be directly correlated!"

The group turns to Spencer, expectant. Spencer smiles broadly. "I think I know what I'm talking about when I say that is completely not true. As far as I know-"

Penelope cuts him off, looking a little smug, "And he knows a _lot_,"

He throws her a quick grin. "There hasn't even been any clinical studies on that."

Derek throws up his hands in defeat, though there is a good natured smile on his face. "Fine, fine. Just call it an instinct, but I knew for a fact that Jennifer Jareau was not a natural blonde."

JJ rolls her eyes, looking back at me, whispering. "He so did not."

"I heard that!" They all laugh and I even find a giggle slipping out. It feels amazing to laugh, even if it was only a shadow of a real one. The hostess comes back, ordering our drinks. Everyone except Spencer and I get wine. I order a diet coke and he orders a sprite. The hostess is looking up from under her eyelashes at him, smiling haughtily. "Can I get you_ anything_ else?"

"Um, n-no, thank you." He is blushing heavily, avoiding eye contact except for quick, rushed glances up.

She walks away and the team seems to be having trouble keeping composure. JJ keeps a hand over her amused mouth. Penelope is staring with an incredulous, yet delighted expression.

"I'm not profiler, nor do I play one on tv, but I think Boy Wonder has an admirer! She's a little smitten kitten!" They all burst out into hysterical laughs, even Hotch, the severe looking leader, is chuckling in his seat. Boy Wonder is staring avidly at the menu on the table, flipping from front to back, then back to front.

Derek claps a hand on his back. "Come on, Man, she obviously wants you."

"I think I want the chicken parm. I bet it's great here. Did you know that, um, that..."

Rossi is grinning at him. "I don't think you'll find any statistics on Chicken Parmigiana in that big brain of yours."

"There are 14,643 italian restaurants listed in the United States. That's not counting street vendors or unlicensed businesses. That makes up for almost two percent of listed restaurants in America, which is actually a lot considering the fact that there are 888,735 listed and a huge variety of ethnicities and specialties-"

Derek leans around Spencer, who is spilling all of this desperately, as if trying to distract the attention to amount of restaurants in the U.S. "This is how he copes with just about everything."

"Statistics?" I ask, staring at my brother, looking assumedly dumbfounded.

"Like it's his job."

After a few more minutes of teasing, they ease up on Spencer and start to focus on me. They all seem very sincere in their questions, though I can tell they are purposely avoiding subjects regarding my parents.

Hotch is smiling kindly at me. "Do you have any plans for college yet?"

"I'm only fourteen, but I've kinda had my eye on Northwestern University, or York College of Pennsylvania."

Rossi is nodding his head approvingly. "Those are both good schools, and it's great to be prepared. What do you want to major in?"

I feel my cheeks warm a little, and look down at the soda in my hand, clearing my throat. "I'm interested in Journalism. And maybe French Literature as a minor."

Penelope is grinning at me. "Tu parle le francais?"

"Un peu." I say, smiling sheepishly.

"Tres bien, Amelie." Emily is grinning at me. "Je parle le francais, aussi."

Derek is looking around at the three of us. "If this is going to become a problem, I'll be more than happy to buy Rosetta Stone for the rest of the team." He huffs. "Secrets don't make friends, guys."

"Qui dit que c'est un secret?" I ask, grinning madly. Emily and Penelope laugh outright and Spencer is smiling at me, looking something I would say to be proud. I realize, with a little pain, that I have never seen it directed towards me. It makes me smile a little more, though there is a pain in my chest.

Penelope puts a hand on Derek's shoulder. "I'll tell you all my secrets, Hot Stuff."

"I'll be waiting to hear them with eager ears, Baby Girl." I look to Spencer, questioning. He shakes his head."Ils flirtent seulement beaucoup."

I laugh, nodding.I should have known my genius brother speaks french as well. Penelope turns to us. "C'est vrai, mon ami, nous faisons."

Derek stares at Spencer, looking betrayed. "Not you, too, Kid."

My brother only looks up and shrugs bashfully. Though I detect a bit of arrogance."I speak a multitude of language. It makes it easier than having to find english copies of foreign books."

A few minutes later, a male waitress comes to take our order. He is a little built, with dark curly hair and dark brown eyes. He's a little pale, but not chalky white. He winks at me as he begins to take everyone else's orders He saves me for last, looking at me imploringly.. Sensing his arrogance, I give him a cold look and tell him I'll have the chicken scampi. He stares at me for an extra moment, looking me in the eye. "That's a personal favorite of mine. Great choice."

I just nod and hand him the menu, not making eye contact. "I'm Lionell."

The team is staring at him with expressions ranging from calculating to impressed. I only give him a curt reply. "Amelia."

"Nice to meet you, I get you anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Well bless my heart, I think the Reid's are having a lucky day in the love department." I stare at JJ, who makes the comment. "Doubtful. He was probably flirting to get a bigger tip."

"Don't underestimate yourself. He had to have liked you to hit on you that obviously with a girl in a crowd of older people." Emily says with a knowing smile on her face."Plus, you think he's cute."

"I do not!" I say, trying to look sincere and failing miserably.

"I am _so _not old." Rossi snorts and they all laugh.

* * *

><p>**The conversation goes a little like this:<p>

Garcia: You speak french?

Lia: A little.

Emily: Very good, Amelia, I speak french also.

Morgan:Secret's don't make friends

Lia: Who said it was a secret?

Garica: I'll tell you all my secrets

Morgan: I'll be listening

Lia: (silently asks Spence if they are together)

Spencer: They just flirt a lot.

Garcia: It's true, my friend/darling/love, we do.

Reviews help the creative process! Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.

Thanks for reading! Love you all!


	5. Small, Upward Steps

Hi, guys! I'm pretty excited for this chapter. I've been sort of distracted lately. My sister is having another baby! Three cheers for being an aunt again! Haha, well, I'm introducing a couple new characters today, so I'm pretty psyched. You guys are awesome for reviewing. And to _**I-Smell-Cheese**_, WOWW. Thank you so much. I feel totally honored that someone has me ranked with Scarlet O'Hara. I feel like I should give a frikkin' acceptance speech for that one. Phew. Thanks to everyone, really, but that one just made my ego swell a million times larger than it already was.

* * *

><p>Chapter Five<p>

"Mom?" I call, turning the corner into her studio. She is not there, but I see a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I call again. "Where are you?"

"In the bathroom, Honey Bee." I smile, but there is a panic rising in my throat. Something is about to happen, but hearing her voice makes me half-jog towards the sound.

"What are you doing?" I ask. The hallway feels a million miles long and I keep getting farther away. I sprint now, and I reach the bathroom door. It is closed, but there is a white light coming through the crack in the door.

"Just finishing up my bath. Come in, Love." I open the door slowly. She is not here. The bathtub is empty and I look in the mirror. I am ghostly pale. I feel nauseous. I look back to the tub. "Mom!"

"Right here, darling. No need to shout." I look back in the mirror and a scream crawls up my throat. There, in the reflection of the bathtub, is my mother, floating like Ophelia in bloody water. I whip around, and there she is. Pale as death. Her tan skin is a chalky white and I feel coldness radiating from her.

"Oh, God, Mom. Please, Mom. Wake up." I kneel next to her body. I can clearly make out the deep vertical gashes running up her forearms. Even in death, she is beautiful.

I sit for a decade, a century, a millennium, crying and screaming over my mother's corpse.

Her eyes snap open, a crimson red where there once was diamond blue. She grins and her teeth are sharp monster-fangs. She sits up in a flash and grips my throat, pushing me back until I'm lying down. Suddenly, I am breathing in dirt and clay.

Dear God, she's buried me alive. I feel her stroking my hair.

_We can be together, Lia. We can be together again._

_Lia, Lia, Lia…_

"_Lia_!" My eyes open and my sheet is what I am breathing in. Not dirt and clay. It is dark outside, but my light is turned on. Spencer is in his pajamas, hands still shaking my shoulders.

"What's wrong?" I ask. I woke him up. I barge into his life and make him take time off from work and share his space and I don't even let him sleep through the night.

"You were having a night terror." He is staring at me with a sympathetic glimmer in his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?"

I hug him. In the morning, I will be absolutely mortified that I was so careless, but in this moment, I need more than anything to hug someone and have them hug me back. He is still for half of a heartbeat, then he wraps his arms around me.

"Everything," I whisper. "I'm sorry for everything."

"There's nothing to be sorry for." I pull back, and I feel groggy, but my heart is pumping so fast I think it might burst. He stands up. "Let's get some hot cocoa. It's the best remedy for bad dreams."

I nod, getting out of bed. I put on my slippers and robe. We walk out into the kitchen and I get out two mugs while he gets the hot chocolate from the cabinet. We sit on the couch and he pops in a movie, _Roman Holiday_. We watch Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck romp around Rome until we both fall asleep on the couch, less than twenty minutes later.

* * *

><p>I wake up on with a terrible ache in my neck. It is around noon when I check my phone. I stand up and stretch, then go to my room and grab my toiletries. I step in the shower and scrub myself down. Maybe a little bit harsher than usual, because I'm mad and humiliated with myself for that little episode last night.<p>

After getting dressed, I make myself three goals.

1. Get a job.

2. Find a hobby.

3. Finish unpacking.

My stuff had come two days after I arrived here, and it's sort of just been shoved up against the walls to get out of my way.

I need a job to help out. I know Spencer wouldn't let me pay rent or anything, but I think it'd be easier on him if I had my own money for when I wanted to go out. If I ever do. I also don't want to use that credit card.

I make a mental note to send William Reid a check to pay him back for the books I bought yesterday.

And finally, a hobby. If I can make myself useful, and stay out of his hair, I think he wouldn't mind having me so much. I might be able to feel normal again, if I ever felt normal at all.

After I'm dried and dressed, I set out to find Spencer. He is sitting at the kitchen table on the phone. He holds up a finger to tell me to hold on and I get a glass of water and toast a bagel.

I try to ignore the conversation he is having, but certain words keep catching my attention.

"I spoke to her about counseling, but she doesn't want to get into that just yet…Yes, I think that she'll come around when she's ready. Yes…Yes, I know. I think she does need it…Well I'm not sure about being clinically depressed, but obviously situational depression is pretty much a given. I talked to Dr. Gorsky. He doesn't think Amelia needs to be medicated, and I agree. The last thing I think we should do is medicate her into happiness." He goes on for another five minutes or so before hanging up.

"Sorry about that." He starts, getting up to refill his coffee cup. "Your caseworker wanted to do a quick check-up. She says we'll be having a visit from someone from CPS soon, just to make sure I'm not using you for slave-labor."

He laughs softly. He stares at me for a moment. "Are you happy here?"

I look up, a little startled by that. I think for a moment. "I am. I mean, it's not raining sunshine for me right now, but I think that being here is the best place for me."

He smiles genuinely. "Good. I'm glad."

I nod and he is still looking at me, studying. "I am glad you're here, you know. I know things are tough right now, but you seem to be adjusting pretty well. I know things are tough right now, I can only imagine, but from what I've gathered, you're doing amazingly well. Most of that is probably compartmentalizing, but that's completely normal."

I nod again. I have no idea how to ask this. "So, I've been thinking."

"About?" He looks a little nervous, but I can tell he's trying to cover it.

"Well, I think I would like to get a job."

He stares at me for a second. "Really?"

I take a breath and nod. "I think it'd be good for me. I need to keep busy."

A look suddenly dawns on his face. "You don't have to do that. We're totally fine."

I must look confused. He is shaking his head. "No. You don't need to get a job. I actually have a bunch of money saved. I don't really spend that much. I have a really good job and you don't need to be worried about that stuff. Just focus on your schoolwork and being a kid."

"It's not about that, though! I just want to have something to do." He looks unconvinced. "I just need to keep busy, Spencer."

He stares for a moment. "We can try it out, okay? If I think it's too much I'll take back your work papers and you'll have to give a two weeks notice, alright?"

"That's totally reasonable. Thank you." I feel relieved and he goes back to his coffee.

I leave the kitchen, making my way back to my room when I hear him call out. "Lia?"

I turn back and he is half-smiling. "This doesn't make me a pushover, does it?"

I smile at him. "No, it makes you a reasonable and fair adult. A good legal guardian. Definitely not a slave-owner."

He looks contented now. "Okay…Okay, good."

I go back to my room and start researching job openings in the area. Only one catches my eye.

_Bookstore Cashier-Part Time _

I check the address and sure enough, it is the same bookstore that we went to yesterday. The ad had only been posted today, so I quickly grabbed my bag and cardigan, making a beeline for the door.

"Spencer! I'm heading out. I'll be back in a little bit."

"Woah, woah, woah. Hold it. Where are you going now?" He looks a little exacerbated and I know this must be weird for him, having a teenage girl in his house. For a second, I see through his eyes. I am a completely foreign creature to him. No amount of statistics and knowledge of raising teenage girls can compare to _experience_ in raising one. I feel a little humorous pity for him.

"There's a job opening at that bookstore. It was just posted today and I'm going to go apply now."

"Can't we wait until tomorrow?"

"Haven't you ever read any self-help books? _Today I do, tomorrow I will._" I quote. He looks a little skeeved out for a moment.

"Please, don't use that sentence. I've read twenty-two of them, actually."

"What's wrong with that saying?" I ask. He shudders a little.

"There was a woman who was helping girls out with depression and getting a grip on their life and she used that phrase the most."

"You're point?" I ask airily.

"She was murdering them." He deadpans.

I make a face and he laughs. "Oh. Right. Well, that's just sad. Anyway, like I said, I'll be back in like an hour or so."

I turn towards the door. Spencer calls out. "Wait!"

I spin around and stare at him. I imagine I must be the exacerbated one now. He looks like a fretting mother hen. "Uh, well, just, um, be careful. Do you have pepper spray?"

"It's two o'clock in the afternoon and I'm running three minutes up the street!"

"That doesn't matter. Most children are abducted within one mile of their homes!"

"Would you like to give me a whistle and some flares while you're at it?" He gives me a look and heads toward his room. When he comes back, he's got a can of mase and a pocket knife.

"I'm not carrying a _knife_!"

"Just for some piece of mind?" I stare at him for a moment before swiping the knife and pepper spray and stuffing it in my purse.

"Don't bury it in there! You need to be able to reach it quickly." I let out a harsh breath and take it out, placing it in the front pocket, easily within reach for a moment's notice. He still looks worried.

"Do you want to have the police wire me so you know exactly who I'm talking to the entire hour and a half that I'll be gone?"

"You said an hour!"

"Spencer! I'm not going to go hangout with the Bloods and let myself get pimped out. I'll be _fine_."

"You're right. You're right. I'm sorry. I guess I'm just a little nervous about letting you go out by yourself."

"It shows. You can't hold my hand for the rest of my life, you know."

He glares at me. "I'm well aware of that, thank you."

"Alright. I'll be back within two hours, tops. If I'm even five minutes late, and I don't call to let you know, I give you permission to call the cops and send out an entire fleet of a search team."

"No way. Calls don't mean anything. Any kidnapper can make you call me and say you're fine when you're not." I stare him down until he relents.

"Okay. Alright. Be careful. Call me if anything feels even remotely out of the ordinary."

"Spencer, I grew up on the outskirts of Vegas. I'm sure everything here feels out of the ordinary here for me."

"Just listen to your instincts. Call me if anything feels weird."

I sigh, giving up. "Absolutely. I'll keep my phone in hand."

"Okay. Good. Now go. I'm setting an alarm on my watch now."

I walk out as quickly as possible, before he decides it's too much of a risk to let me out in the daylight unprotected.

I get out of the building and turn down the street. Within four minutes I was walking into the bookstore. The old man is there, reading a book and smiling contentedly to himself. He sighs.

"Hello. I'm here to apply for the job?" I say a little timidly. He looks up and grins.

"Wonderful! That's wonderful!" He gets the application and starts rummaging around for a pen.

"What's your name, honey?"

"Amelia Reid." He looks up.

"That's wonderful! I have a friend named Spencer Reid. He's in the FBI. Haven't seen him in years, though…"

"That's my brother, actually." The old man looks up. "That's wonderful! I'm Ray. I own this store.

"Nice to meet you, Ray" He hands me the application and a pen. I fill it out within fifteen minutes and hand it to him. I get up to leave and he holds out his hand, "Hold on a second, Speedy Gonzolez!"

I stand, feeling strange. Why do I need to stay? He starts reading my application, making little affirmative noises every once in a while. Finally, he looks up.

"You're hired, Amelia." He grins and I am totally shocked.

"Really?"

"Sure you are! You seem like a nice young lady. When can you start?"

"Don't you need to do a background check?" I feel unsteady and my head is spinning a bit.

"Those things are for communists, I tell ya'. Communists. Next Monday good?" He peers at me over huge, bug-eye glasses.

"What?"

"Can you start next Monday? You'll start at minimum wage, 8.25, per hour."

"Um, I guess, I just-"

"Oh, well, fine. A sister of Spencer's is a friend of mine. You drive a hard bargain, though. $9.10 per hour. Not a penny more."

"Sure! That's perfect. Thank you so much!" I say, trying to keep up with him.

"Thank _you_!"

"What time should I be here?"

"Well, we open at nine, but if that's too early-"

I gape at this man. What kind of employer is he? Am I also allowed to spit on the carpet and show up in my pj's? "I'll be in at nine, then."

"Wonderful! That's just wonderful." He goes on. He writes on his calendar, I'm guessing penciling in his new employee. I'm still standing there when he looks back up.

"Anything else you need help with, Amelia?" I shake my head.

"Call me Lia."

He thinks for a moment. "I'm going to call you Amelia. It's much more musical, don't you think?"

I shrug. "Sure. Call me whatever you want, I guess."

He laughs loudly. "Don't give me too much freedom, now."

I laugh, still a little dizzy. "Right. Have a good day, Ray."

"You too, Amelia. See you next Monday!"

I exit and feel entirely relieved. In an economy like this one, I was pretty sure I'd be stuck at McDonald's serving rude customer's.

On my walk back, I try to take in my surroundings. There is a bunch of clothing boutiques and a few antique shops. I see a thrift shop and then I see a little building that catches my special attention.

_Madame Turov's Ballet Studio_

Inside, there are five or six girls, all my age and a little older. There is a sign posted on the front.

_SPOTS NOW OPEN._

_$100/MONTH_

I walk in and look for a pamphlet or flyer.

"Hello?" A thick Russian accent calls out. "Can I help you, darlink?"

I turn and see a very beautiful woman, with hair sweeped up into a bun and black eyeshadow with crimson red lips. She must be forty years old.

"I was interested in taking classes?"

"Interested? This isn't a hobby, dear." She looks at me skeptically.

"I just like ballet, that's all." I say quietly. One of the girls, a brunette with equally red lips leans in the frame of the doorway separating the front room from the studio. "There's a big difference between liking it and having a passion for it."

"I'm sorry for bothering you." I turn to leave and the woman stops me.

"Dance. I'll consider letting you fill one of my openings, but you need to show me where you stand. Do you know the choreography for Swan Lake?"

I nod, but I know I will humiliate myself. I haven't danced a full number in years.

She nods to a blonde sitting in the corner. The blonde hit's the stereo and it begins playing. I stare at the woman, Madame Turov, I'm guessing, and the brunette who is staring apathetically at me. She makes a face, like, _Go, you idiot._

Madame Turov stares at me for a moment. "Dance."

I swallow the lump in my throat and slowly walk out onto the dance floor. I am in jeans and converse. I cannot dance in jeans and converse.

I close my eyes and remember my mothers sweeping moves and beautiful pirouettes. I dance for maybe a minute before the music is cut off. I turn and expect sneering faces and cruel laughter, but I am met with the same indifferent expressions as I started with.

Madame Turov nods. "You need help."

The brunette snorts. "More than we can offer."

Madame's head whips to her. "Enough, Ramona."

he turns back to me. "You will need private tutoring. Rocket, you are in charge of helping her."

The blonde with the pixie haircut who was in charge of the music looks pissed. "Are you kidding me? She's like a baby."

I lift my chin, indignant. "I can do it by myself."

Turov looks at me, very closely. "If you wish to join my classes, you will understand that you do _nothing_ by yourself, darlink. We are not individual forces. We are a company. We dance _together_."

I nod, blushing. "Right."

"Be here on Friday by five p.m. You and Rocket will begin your private lessons. What is your name?"

"Amelia Reid."

"Amelia." She says, like she's tasting it in her mouth. "Welcome to Madame Turov's."

I thank her. She get's out a binder filled with laminated pages. "Here is the choreography for some of our number's. Get your parents to fill out the paper work and bring it back her with you on Friday. Memorize the vocabulary."

I nod, and make my way back to the door. The brunette finally stands up straight. She flips her hair and looks back at me. "Good luck, new girl."

It doesn't sound threatening, but it is most definitely not inviting.

* * *

><p>I get back into the apartment with forty-five minutes to spare. Spencer looks incredibly relieved.<p>

"How'd it go?"

"Well, I got kidnapped, raped and pillaged. But on the bright side, I got the job!"

"That's not funny, Amelia." He stops. "Wait, you got the job?"

"Mhmm, and I also got into a ballet class."

"Wait, what?"

"I'm just as lost as you are, but here's the paperwork that needs to be filled out." I take the thick packet out of the binder and hand it to him. He takes it, dumbfounded.

"I didn't know you liked ballet?"

I shrug. "I guess I do. My mom loved it. She was always trying to teach me, I sort of enjoyed it."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asks skeptically.

"Yeah. I mean, just like the job thing. We can try it out. If it gets to be too much, you let me know and I'll drop it."

He nods his head, a little warily. "I think maybe it's a lot to put onto your plate right now, though. I also need to do background checks on the owners and the places. I have to say I think it might be too much. Not to undermine you, but, it just seems like a lot. You've only been here-"

"We'll just _try_ it, Spencer, please?" He stares at me for a second, before letting out an annoyed breath.

"I am totally becoming a pushover." He huffs, turning and storming into his room.


	6. Quick Fights and Quicker Friends

Hello, beautiful people! Just stopping in to give you a quick warning. This chapter contains some dicey language, and also, some dicey subject matter. No, I'm not having people getting it on, but things are getting kinda rough for Amelia.

* * *

><p>Chapter Six<p>

Friday comes without incident. Spencer fills out the paper work and reluctantly returns it to the binder sitting on the coffee table in the living room. We eat breakfast in silence. Finally, he blurts out what I had hoped he would avoid until I was old enough to forget about her.

"You need to go into counseling, Amelia. I'm serious. You can't keep going on as if nothing is wrong." He says this and for the first time since I met him, almost two weeks ago, he looks sort of unsure, as if he's rethinking this whole 'adopt-your-orphan-sister' plan. I realize, somewhere in the back of my head, my birthday is in two days. It feels unreal.

"I don't need to go into counseling, Spencer." I say quietly, because if I speak too loud I'm afraid my voice will crack. I don't want to talk about this.

"Lia. I know this is a touchy subject,-" I huff.

"Jesus, Spencer, just _stop_." He is mad now.

"No. No, I won't stop. You're so sad it's practically palpable. I think you're in serious danger of-"

I feel vicious now, rage boiling inside of me. I slam down my cup of coffee and stand. Instead of looking upset, Spencer stands as well. "In danger of _what_, exactly? Killing myself? You think I'm that weak? You think I can't handle being the girl that nobody wants?"

"I _never_ said that."

"You didn't _have _to. It radiates off of every pore in your body. The pity you feel for me is practically _palpable._" I bite out. He steps back, as if I've slapped him with his own words.

"I don't pity you." He says, but the lie is written all over his face.

I storm into my room and don't leave until it is almost four forty-five. Spencer tries to reason with me every few hours, but I am unreachable.

I do not cry, although I want to. I do not feel anything, and this scares me almost to death.

* * *

><p>I reach the ballet studio with little interference from my brother, just a soft 'Be Careful' as I walked out the door. I want to feel bad, but if I do, I will have to feel everything. That is a risk I'm not willing to take.<p>

Rocket is sitting pretzel-legged in the middle of the studio, phone glued to her hands and when she sees me, she rolls her eyes.

"Lesson Numero Uno, Amelia: When Madame says five, she means four thirty. When she says four thirty, she means four. Early is on time. On time is late. Got it?" She says this with a 'You should've known that, you idiot' tone. I nod my head, because my throat is too dry to speak.

She stares at me, studying my face. "You have some serious demons eating at you, huh?"

I don't say anything, just blankly stare back at her. She urges me on. "Daddy fucking you? Mom a junkie?"

"Excuse me?" I say, though it is not an offended tone, as I had hoped, just small and hurt. I mentally kick myself. I am making myself an open target.

She rolls her eyes again. It is incredibly annoying how flippant she is about the serious accusations she's bringing against my parents. "Just a question. You don't have to answer. Don't feel bad about it. It happens to all of us. My sister and I are living on our own. We ran away when we were sixteen and fourteen. I'm sixteen now, Charlie's eighteen. Step-dad was a drunk bastard, you know? Oh, it's no big deal. Seriously. We're fine now. We're great, actually."

I don't know if I'm supposed to apologize or high five her, with the way she's talking. As if she's talking about the weather, or sports. Rocket doesn't seem to mind my response, or lack of one, just twirls over to the stereo, turning on a popular music station.

"Alright, let's warm up." She begins stretching. I follow her lead and she nods like she's surprised I'm not completely incompetent. We begin basic moves: pilee, pirouette, pointe. We go through the positions and soon enough, it is almost six o'clock. She sighs, stretching once more.

"It's important to stretch before and after." I nod, stretching with her.

"You don't talk very much, do you?" She stops stretching and asks, staring at me oddly. I shrug.

"I just don't know you that well." I say. She stares at me for a moment longer.

"Look, can I say something? No offense intended." I look cautiously at her and nod.

"How much do you weigh?" I am taken back. Last time I checked, I weighed in at around one twenty-two. I don't answer though, just keep looking at her.

"I'm seriously not trying to be rude. Seriously. It's just, well, if you want to get anywhere in ballet, you need to be flexible, pliant, and willowy. Not curvy. Go check." She nods towards the scale. I glance at the scale, and for the first time in my life, I feel a sense of foreboding at weighing myself. We stand together, and she walks over with me. I stand on it, holding my breath.

She moves the notches on the scale and I hear it shift for a few moments before she stops. I open and see that in two weeks I have gained almost twelve pounds.

Now, it is possible that I've put this on throughout the last few months, because I rarely ever weigh myself, but it feels overwhelming. I stand on this scale, all one hundred and thirty four pounds of me, and I feel humiliated.

It seems so irrational, though, because I am way below obese, or even overweight, but it just feels like _so much. _Rocket is watching my face, though, and as if she can read my mind, she comments quietly.

"I could help you out, you know." I look at her suddenly, as if I almost forgot she was capable of speaking. I step off the scale and the metal hitting metal as it resets itself makes both of us jump.

"You can?" She nods, walking over to her bag, a brightly colored beaded thing, and rummages through it for a few minutes before standing up straight again, a triumphant expression. "I knew I kept extras in here."

"Extras?" I ask, rethinking all of this. She whips around quickly.

"This isn't illegal. It's not drugs. It's a totally natural dietary supplement. It has tons of Green Tea, and this stuff called garcinia cambogia, which increases metabolism and decreases cravings for food. It also has guarana, which enhances mental alertness and physical endurance."

She hands me the metal packet with about fifteen tan-colored pills. I don't take it right away, so she sighs, grabs my hand, and places them in my palm. "Take three everyday. Before breakfast, during lunch, and after dinner."

"Are you sure this is safe?" I ask warily. She rolls her eyes again.

"I take them, and look at me!" She meant this as a reference to her health, but I look at her body then, and she is thin. Really thin. She has small, small breasts and nearly no curves. She wears a larger sweater, but her leggings show a noticeable gap between her thighs. I glance down as she gathers her bag up. I have no space between my thighs. Daylight does not shine through them.

"Well, I gotta bounce. I've got a date with a handsome fellow named Andrew. You were a pretty good student. Here's my number if you need anything. Here's the key, lock up when you leave. Put the key inside the flower pot on the left. We'll meet up again next Friday, same time. Ta!" She says airily with a little feminine wave. I watch her leave, then look down to the pills in my hand. I feel like I shouldn't take them, some PSA ringing in my head from years ago.

_Never accept any medicine from strangers, kids!_

I am not a kid. I am a wanna-be ballerina, and I need to lose weight.

I pop out one of the pills and swallow it down dry. It tastes like dirt in my mouth.

* * *

><p>I crawl into the apartment twenty minutes later. Spencer is in the kitchen stirring in a pot.<p>

"Hey! How was it?" He asks. Though the angry words from earlier still linger in the air, he is calling a truce with spaghetti. I sit down, but stand up less than thirty seconds later, feeling a little jittery.

He notices this. "You alright?"

"Fine!" I yelp out. I clear my throat, try again. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He watches me carefully. "Are you…sure?"

I nod, carefully controlling my movements. "Yeah, I'm just feeling really energetic after all that."

He smiles, pleased. "So it was good, then?"

"Great, actually." I say, secretly smiling over Rocket's words from earlier.

* * *

><p>A lot of what she's going through is very similar to my own problems, so I'm only speaking for myself when I say I'm trying to make this as realistic as possible. I warned you, there will be angst. Things will progress, and get worse. I also want to say that if you look at it clinically, this all makes sense. Well, as much sense as something like this<em> can<em> make. She feels out of control in her own life, and so instead of coping with it in a healthy fashion, she is letting disordered behavior do the coping for her. All of this is a manifestation of control. It's textbook. While she can't control her mother's death and her father's abandonment, she can control herself.


	7. Early Birthday

…I'm back? Look, I'm sorry this has taken forever. A lot has happened. Like, a shit ton. But I'm here. If you're willing to trust me again, I'd be happy to continue this story. I might go back and rewrite some, but for right now I just wanna bang this chapter out.

* * *

><p>Saturdays used to be amazing. I remember spending them in bed with Berlioz, a cup of tea and a stack of books as tall as me sitting next to my bed. My mother would come in just after sunrise with breakfast on a tray for both of us, and I would read to her or she would tell me stories of that time in Mexico, or Sweden, or some obscure island where nobody works and everyone dances.<p>

With my current situation, however, I sat in bed for an hour in my little off-white room with no mom or cat or breakfast and thought of nothing except ways to lose weight.

Now, I stand in the shower, staring at the wall and not thinking of anything. I don't think about my mother or father or brother or anything. The color grey is in my mind. After a few minutes, there is a knock on the door.

"Um, Lia? Are you alright?" Spencer asks tentatively.

"Sure, why?" I ask, slightly annoyed.

"Lia, you've been in there for two hours."

I suddenly am aware that the water is freezing cold and my blood runs at a similar temperature. How did I lose that time? Where did it even go?

I quickly scrub myself down and jump out, dressing in a fresh set of pajamas and deciding I'm not leaving the apartment all day. When I move out to the kitchen, Spencer is drinking coffee and reading an obscenely long book.

Without looking up, he asks "How are you doing?"

"Fine."

"You didn't sleep well." He still doesn't look up.

"What makes you say that?"

"I heard you pacing until almost two in the morning. Judging by the shadows under your eyes, you didn't sleep soundly after that either." Fuck him.

"You listen to my footsteps?" I ask, maybe trying to pick a fight.

He doesn't take the bait. "Just an observation."

"A slightly creepy one," I mumble while pouring a cup of coffee.

He ignores me, and we finish our drinks in silence. I feel bad, he doesn't deserve my piss poor attitude but I feel sorry for myself and want pity, which he seems keen on not giving now.

I apologize quietly, and he looks up from his book, smiling softly, which just makes me feel even worse. I don't deserve his kindness.

"It's alright. You're under stress, it happens." With that, he gets his book, and returns to his room.

I sit by myself for a long time, content with the continuation of my pity party when my phone rings. The noise startles me so much that I knock over my coffee, without really checking the caller ID I answer, suddenly incredibly pissed.

"Hel-_lo_," I say curtly. There is a moment of hesitation, a deep breath, and then, very quietly: "Hi, Lia."

The voice halts my anger, not that he didn't deserve it, but the shock of him calling me sends me reeling. "Dad?"

"I, uh, I just-I wanted to wish you a happy birthday."

Spencer comes tumbling in seconds later, weapon drawn, "I heard a crash."

The fact that my brother is holding a gun and looks like he actually knows how to use it and my father's careful breathing on the end of the line is so surreal I think I might puke and laugh and cry all at once.

I shake my head at Spencer, who is now much more concerned with the fact that I'm on the phone. "Thanks, Dad."

My brother's face is suddenly pale, and his mouth sets itself in a thin line. I shrug, feeling confused and guilty. William Reid never called his son on his birthday.

"Right, um, how's it going over there? How's Spence?"

"Everything's fine. Spencer's fine." I make it a point to use his name. He has to know that his father cares a little bit. His face is still pale, but he looks angry, now. He's mad at me, and I know it. Without warning, Spencer rips the phone from my hand.

"Her birthday isn't until tomorrow, you ass," and hangs up. I feel a strange sense of gratitude.

"Sorry" I whisper, and then make a beeline for my room. Before I even get the door shut, Spencer is pushing it back open.

"Sit down." A jolt of fear runs through me. There it goes, he hates me now. He's going to send me away. I'll be sent to a children's home or some foster home with twelve kids and three beds.

"Lia, I'm not mad at you. I need you to know that." He says, palms forward in an apologetic stance. "I'm sorry I hung up the phone, I just-"

"Don't be sorry. It's fine. I-"He cuts me off.

"No, I am. I was angry at William for thinking he had any ethical right to call you. I think you already know that I'm not on fantastic terms with him, but that doesn't mean you don't have to be. If you want to, then I encourage you to call him back."

"Trust me, I don't want to." I say, still feeling guilty. Spencer nods, turning around.

"I did the math, Spencer, and I know you have too." Shit. I know I should have just left it, but something in me needed this. "Dad left you and your mom for my mom. And two years later, they had me."

Spencer is quiet, but turns around, looking at everything but me. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and looks at me. "I know."

"Do you hate me?" I ask, feeling very vulnerable all of the sudden. "Because I would understand if you did. He never loved me, though, if that makes you feel any better. At least, not like he loved my mom."

"I should _hope_ he didn't love you like he loved your mother." He says, looking furious and terrified all at once.

"I didn't mean it like that and you know it. He loved her with a religious type of love. He worshipped her. I wasn't like her, though. I'm not pretty or smart or talented. I was nothing to him, he only loved as far as his obligation as my father held him."

"Lia, I'd like to make one thing clear. I do not hate you. I couldn't hate you. I think you're a genuinely smart fourteen, almost fifteen year old that is sad and happens to be middle of a very unfortunate circumstance. I don't feel better in the least knowing that you think your father only loved you out of obligation. I do, however, think William Reid is a selfish person by nature, and that's not your fault, okay? None of this is your fault. Not even a little bit."

I nod, wanting to believe him. He starts out the door, then turns around again.

"Get dressed, we're going to Penelope's." I look at him quizzically.

"I have a little present for you, I was going to save it for tomorrow, but I think you need it now."

"You didn't have to get me anything." He shakes his head.

"Technically, I didn't." I stare at him, still confused. "Just get dressed, Lia. You're going to love it."

"Whatever you say, Spence."

About an hour later, we pull up outside of an apartment complex and wait for Penelope to ring us in. Once inside, I fall in love with her apartment and ask a thousand questions about where she got everything. After my initial fawning was over, Penelope gave Spencer a pout.

"I was just getting attached, you know? He's a total sweetheart." She smiles, "You're totally lucky, kitten."

"Thanks?" I say, feeling confused and uncomfortable. She only grins and disappears in another room. A moment later, she is back with a grey little kitten with wide green eyes.

I gasp, tears immediately and traitorously springing to my eyes. "BERLIOZ!"

Penelope hands him to me, and he nuzzles my cheek and swats at my hair. When I look up, a tear streaks down my cheek before I have a chance to catch it. "Thank you, Spencer."

He is blushing. "It was really nothing."

"No, this means a whole lot to me." I say, quietly hoping my voice doesn't crack. Garcia sniffs, and when I steal a glance at her she is openly crying.

"You guys are just so _sweet_." She cries out, "I can hardly _handle_ it!"


End file.
